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User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 46
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 06/11/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter 46 27 July 1997 Minerva’s eyes opened, and she blinked twice, the wisps of her dream retreating into the fog from which she’d awakened. The sun slanted in through the curtains at an angle that told her it was nearing six o’ clock. She rolled over to find Alastor’s natural eye open, looking at her. “Good morning,” he said. “Good morning.” She was glad he no longer insisted on wearing the uncomfortable patch to bed, but this morning, the empty socket of his missing eye reminded her of his vulnerability. She reached over to brush a straggle of grey hair from his cheek, and he leant over to kiss her. Despite her need to get up and face a busy day, the kiss turned heated and serious—at whose instigation, Minerva couldn’t have said. Alastor’s lips travelled from her mouth to her neck, and she pulled herself closer to him, tangling her top leg with his, careful to avoid jostling his stump too badly. His hands wandered under her nightdress, ghosting over her thighs and bottom and skimming across her belly, finally finding her breasts, to send electric shocks of pleasure through her. Already breathless with need, she removed their clothes with a wandless spell. “Love it when you do that,” he murmured into her neck. Minerva’s fingers moved over his scarred body almost frantically, as if trying to memorise him by touch, and he stroked her face with one hand, the other dipping between her open thighs to discover just how badly she wanted him again, despite his having taken her enthusiastically to bed the previous evening. His good eye stayed steady on her face, and her eyes remained open while her tension grew in response to his fingers’ knowing dance. She made him stop before sensation overwhelmed her. “Now, please,” she said, her hands urging him to complete their union. They made love like that, facing one another, Alastor clutching at her hip for leverage. Near the end, Minerva stopped moving and let him control the rhythm. When she fell apart around him, Alastor’s lips took hers again, and his moans disappeared into her mouth. When it was over, they lay in one another’s arms, Alastor’s hand stroking up and down Minerva’s leg as their perspiration mingled and cooled their heated skin. Neither spoke. A harsh ringing sound interrupted their idyll, and she groaned. The day had come, as days do, whether she wanted it or not, and this particular day was one she’d been dreading for more than a week. Alastor growled a Finite, and the Tempus charm Minerva had needlessly set the night before stopped its infernal noise. After another stolen moment enjoying the solid feel of his arms and his steady breath across her cheek, she sighed. “I should get up,” she said. “I’m meant to be breakfasting with the chairwizard of the board of governors in London at seven.” “Tell him to bugger off.” “I’d love to, but if we’re to have a school ready to open in September, I’m afraid I can’t.” She tried to sit up, but his arm tightened around her. “Forget the school. We’ll run away to an island, somewhere with no governors, no spotty teenagers, and absolutely no Dark Lords.” “That sounds heavenly,” she said. “Shall we take your broom or mine?” He kissed her again, and it was a long few seconds before he released her. She got up, and when she had closed the bathroom door behind her, she leant against it, letting out a shaky breath. Wishing it away won’t make it so, she told herself. The evening would come, the sun would go down, and Alastor would be off on his mission, and nothing she could do would forestall it. She showered and dressed, and when she emerged from the bathroom, he was having a cup of tea in her sitting room. “Join me?” he asked. “I can’t. It’s late.” “I know.” She felt suspended in thick gelatine; it was impossible to take the six or seven steps that would lead her to the door. He stood and went to her, taking her face gently between his meaty hands. “It’ll be all right,” he said softly. “I know. Just be careful.” “I will.” He let her face go. “I’ll see you back here after we know Potter’s safe at the Burrow.” She nodded, and he pecked her on the lips again, and she somehow found her way out the door to begin her long day. ~oOo~ Alastor dismounted his broom and rubbed his jaw, which ached from clenching, and surveyed the small garden. He and Kingsley cast a series of Muggle-repelling charms, and Alastor scanned the perimeter, letting his magical eye penetrate the fence. Good. No nosy neighbours were trying to peek into the Dursleys’ backyard to see what all the din was about. His eye swivelled to look through the back of his head when he heard a bang from behind him. Potter came hurtling out the door, and the joyous cries from the kids made Alastor’s fists tighten. They were acting like this was a ruddy joyride. Yes, they’d all miraculously managed to get to Privet Drive unscathed, and Potter was waiting for them, as arranged, but it was far too early for celebrating. The real danger lay ahead, and all the noise could only help anyone skulking about trying to pinpoint the boy’s location. Alastor herded the group inside, his agitation increasing with the kids’ laughing and chattering. Bill and his French girlfriend took to a corner of the kitchen to canoodle as if they were in a booth at Madam Puddifoot’s. The Weasley twins kept up a constant and irritating jokey patter, and their younger brother made cow-eyes at the Granger girl, who giggled at whatever he or Potter said to her. Just like before. They think this is a game. And just like before, some of them will die. Alastor pushed the thought away and tossed the sacks of clothes he’d been carrying onto the gleaming table. The ones who had been through the previous war, Kingsley, Remus, and Arthur, were sober and quiet, and Alastor thanked Merlin for them. Dung sat, hangdog and fidgety, at the end of the table. Hagrid ambled in last, ducking under the doorframe. Christ. Here they were, on a dangerous mission to move their most valuable asset to a safe house, and the Order had only managed to scare up five actual veterans. Well, six, if one counted Dung Fletcher, but Alastor didn’t. And Hagrid couldn’t even cast a proper stunner. Which was one reason Potter would be safest with him, Alastor thought. No one would expect Hagrid to be guarding the Chosen One, and, though the man might be a menace with a wand, he wouldn’t endanger the boy with stupid heroics, and it would take more than one strong spell to kill the half-giant or even knock him off the motorcycle. Alastor was certain he’d give his life for Potter, if it came down to it, which he sincerely hoped it wouldn’t. When Tonks—Tonks!—started in on her recent marriage, blathering like a schoolgirl, Alastor lost it. “All right, all right, we’ll have time for a cosy catch-up later!” The group quieted, the kids looking nervously at one another like firsties at the Sorting. After Alastor had explained the plan to Potter, and all the would-be doppelgangers had taken their allotted dose of Polyjuice, Alastor hustled the group back out into the garden, anxious to get the hell on with it. Even the Thestrals seemed to have a case of the ab-dabs; they snuffled and pawed the ground, tearing ragged divots into the immaculate lawn. Merlin, but Alastor hoped this cockeyed plan would work. Mundungus Fletcher’s suggestion of the Polyjuice ruse had surprised everyone at the Order meeting the week past. Dung almost never spoke up at meetings, except when called upon to share information gleaned from his dealings with the Wizarding underworld. Alastor had wondered if Dung had let someone in on the plan to move Potter early and was trying to cover for a slip-up, so Alastor had cornered him one evening several days after the meeting and, for the first and only time in his career, used Veritaserum, slipping a dose into the Firewhisky he’d bought Dung. When Alastor had asked if he’d told anyone about the plan, Dung had denied it, and, asked about his suggestion to hide the real Potter among several Polyjuiced imposters during the move, Dung had said the idea had occurred to him in a dream. Alastor believed him; he was certain Dung hadn’t mastered the ability to defeat the potion’s imperative to tell the truth, and at the last Order meeting, when Alastor had endorsed the Polyjuice plan—without mentioning the Veritaserum—the other Order members had fallen in line too. It had frightened Alastor a little how willing they were to agree with him. It demonstrated that the leadership vacuum created by Dumbledore’s death was still a huge problem. Despite Alastor’s grudging belief that Dung’s plan was legit, Alastor had insisted Dung be one of the imposters. It made it less likely that Dung would jeopardise the plan with loose talk, and it would allow Alastor to keep a close watch on him during the operation. Alastor was under no illusion that Dung would stick around if the Death Eaters showed up, so he assigned himself as Dung’s partner. If anyone was going to be left without an extra wand during a fight, it would be Alastor himself, although everyone in the Order knew he’d likely be the main target if the Death Eaters attacked during the move. The whole plan was risky, but he’d discussed it at length with both Kingsley and Minerva after the meeting, and they hadn’t been able to formulate anything better. The sooner this was over with, the better for everyone. Alastor’s eyes moved over the group. They were so very young, some of them: the Weasley boys, Fleur and Hermione, and Tonks, too, only 23 or 24, if Alastor remembered rightly. If things went tits-up—entirely likely, in Alastor’s estimation—some of them might be dead before the hour was out. He shook the thought off and mounted his broom. He hoped the strong Disillusionment charms he, Kingsley, and Tonks had cast would hold and any Muggles in the area would be spared a strange sight: several brooms, including Alastor’s tricked-out Comet; two Thestrals, and one oversized motorbike, complete with sidecar, rose above Privet Drive and up into the high cloud cover. Within 20 seconds of take-off, Alastor knew they’d been betrayed. The moment the group passed out of the range of Lily Potter’s protective charm, the Death Eaters surrounded them. Alastor’s quick count put their number at around a dozen black-clad figures. They’d obviously been waiting, and if they’d heard the arrival of the Order members, they’d been smart enough to let them get to the Dursley house unmolested. They’d evaded the detection charms Alastor and Kingsley had cast on the way in, which meant they were a canny and magically powerful group. And they wanted Potter. Alastor girded himself for an almighty battle. Everyone seemed to remember the plan, thank Merlin, and shot off in different directions, forcing their enemies to choose whom to follow. Alastor watched the dark figures swoop after them, at least one on each Order member’s tail, until they disappeared in the mist. Mother of God be with them on the battlefield during life and at the hour of death … watch over Thy children … Harry, Nymphadora, Kingsley, Remus, Hagrid, Arthur, Mundungus … Hermione, Ronald, William … Fleur, George, Fred … Three Death Eaters appeared next to him, two on his left, the other on his right. Merlin, but they were fast! Father, I give to You my sins and thank You for Your forgiveness and Your love. It was a hodgepodge of prayers he’d learnt in his childhood, and he’d hardly been a religious man since, but he hoped God would understand. At least his mam would be pleased with him when she met him on the other side of the Veil, which was likely to be very soon, he thought as the Death Eaters drew closer, trying to squeeze him. He performed evasive manoeuvres to duck their spells. Alastor’s Protego kept several from hitting Dung, and the blue light that bounced off of the charm told Alastor that the Death Eaters weren’t duelling to kill—not yet, anyway. Their Dark Lord wanted Potter alive, which was good news for the doppelgangers, less so for the protectors. Alastor didn’t mess about with Stunning or any other disabling spell. He fired an Avada Kedavra at the nearest Death Eater and missed, but his next one connected, and the Death Eater toppled from his broom, his cloak fluttering in the wind above him like a black sail. As he had on the few occasions he’d killed in the past, Alastor muttered, “Jaysus fergive me.” His remaining two pursuers tried a flanking move, flying below him, then up on either side. Fortunately, he was able to keep tabs on both of them, using his natural eye to follow one, his magical eye the other. He silently thanked Gordon Mulciber for the curse that had taken his real right eye all those years ago. It might just save his life now. Alastor’s next Killing Curse missed the Death Eater to his left but set fire to the tail of his broom, slowing him down. The bastard to Alastor’s right dropped out of sight, and Alastor scanned the sky below them, looking for him. “He’s right behind us!’ Dung shouted, and Alastor felt him fire a spell. “Hang on!” Alastor yelled. He let his broom drop suddenly, prompting another cry of protest from Dung. Now the Death Eater was in front of and above them, and Alastor’s fast curse hit him squarely in the back with a small burst of green sparks. The stricken Death Eater seemed to hang in the air for a second before losing his mount and hurtling down and disappearing into the clouds below them. “Two more coming up on our left,” Dung cried, and Alastor’s eye swivelled to see two black blurs zooming their way. They were still about ten or fifteen yards away and moving fast, so Alastor couldn’t get a bead on them; he hoped they couldn’t get one on him either. He pushed his broom higher, hoping to lose them in the thicker clouds above. But no, they kept closing in, and Alastor’s mind raced ahead to his next move, but they suddenly drew off. Shite. They had somehow figured out that Dung wasn’t the real Harry Potter. Alastor searched the sky. Even his magical eye couldn’t see very far in the mist that hovered in the air high above Surrey, but he could just make out a shape in the distance. He thought it was one of the Thestrals. The motorbike was nowhere in sight, and Alastor prayed that Hagrid had got Potter far away before the Death Eaters had twigged to the imposters. The Thestral seemed to be coming closer, and Alastor thought, No! Move away, damn you! A high-pitched scream from behind him made Alastor’s magical eye swivel around. A funnel of black smoke chased them, a terrible reptilian face seeming to bloom and coalesce from the vortex. Alastor’s belly turned over. Jaysus, Maria ‘n Joseph, he can fly. Alastor didn’t know if even his strongest Avada Kedavra could harm Voldemort, so he prepared for defensive action. “Hang on tight!” he yelled at Dung. “I’m getting out of here!” Alastor felt Dung shift on the broom. “You can’t Disapparate at this height! You’ll never make it!” He turned and clutched at Dung, but with a loud crack!, Fletcher was gone. The smoke trail was gone too. Alastor turned back around in time to see the smoke-shrouded snakehead crack a ghastly smile. The spectre’s wand was pointed straight at Alastor. The world seemed to slow to quarter-time. Alastor let go of his broom handle and pulled his charmed cloak tighter around him as he prepared to deflect the curse, and summoned all his magical strength. It was aeons before the ghastly green light reached him. There was no pain, oddly enough, though Alastor could feel enormous energy enter his body through his already-mangled right cheek. He tried to direct it away from his heart and brain. Heat lightninged through him, and he felt as though he were dissolving into a vat of warm oil. He couldn’t move, and it wasn’t bad; in fact, it was just fine. A strong wind soothed his overheated face, and he realised he was falling … falling … Despite the warmth and the comforting breeze, a pang of regret broke over him. I’m sorry, Minerva … His body swivelled in the air, and he could see the ground rushing up below him. A dirt road bisected a clump of trees and grass that surrounded a low, industrial-looking building. Hope I don’t fall on anyone. His body rotated again, and he was surprised by the sight of a dark figure hurtling towards him. Wha— An jagged burst of pain tugged at Alastor’s bones, and he thought he must have hit ground, but, strangely, he could still feel the cool wind. He was contemplating this mystery when he did hit. Oh. All breath had left him, and he wondered if he was already dead. A sickeningly familiar face appeared just above him. Thin, cold fingers touched the side of his neck, and a wand pointed at him. The face said, “Obliv—” And Alastor Brendan Moody knew no more. ← Back to Chapter 45 On to Chapter 47 → Category:Blog posts Category:Chapters of A Slant-Told Tale